see, like ashes, my contrition
by Laora
Summary: Neil Dylandy hasn't been inside a church in years. He isn't really sure why he's inside one now. [Lockon Lives AU.]


_Happy birthday to Sapphireswimming! It's still Saturday in my time zone so it counts, right?_

_Decided I should start posting more of my Canticle AU, in which Lockon survives Fallen Angels and ends up alone on Earth. This one has been labelled "Church AU" in my Google Drive for like...3 years, so I decided to finally finish it and post it. I really hope you like it!_

_Set in the same general AU as 'resurrect the sun and all its holy beams,' but a divergent version of the AU, if that makes sense? I have like...15 versions of Canticle running in my head, someone send help_

* * *

Lockon finds his way back to Ireland, after Fallen Angels. He has vague plans of finding Lyle. He only has definite plans to visit his parents and sister.

He visited when he could, during Celestial Being's operations – but those became fewer and further between as the years went on. Now, it's been nearly six months since he's said hello to his parents and sister. Unacceptable, he knows – and so he touches down in the Dublin airport, finds his car (permanently parked in the lot), and drives the hour and a half to his hometown.

The flower shop he's gone to for years has closed; he frowns at the empty building as he pulls out his phone, punching in _florist_ and going to the next nearest place. He hadn't been around enough for that old woman to remember his face, but he had certainly remembered her – she had been old and wrinkled and very, very kind. When Lockon started going there when he was fourteen, alone, she had asked kindly whether he had a date with some pretty girl – and when he said that it was for his family's grave, her face fell. She gave him that first bouquet of white roses free of charge.

(He wonders whether that old woman has died, just like everyone else in his life.)

He walks into an unfamiliar store and requests a bouquet of white roses – the teenager behind the counter obliges with a curious look to the flowers and the scars upon his face, but says nothing as she rings him up.

"Have a good day, sir," she says, the phrase automatic enough that Lockon knows she's said it a thousand times before – but he has had precious few people speak to him in kindness, these past months, and so he finds himself mustering a smile in return.

"You, too."

The graveyard is only a few blocks away, and Lockon walks the distance in silence, the roses wrapped and held in his trembling hands. He knows – he knows he needs to figure out what to do with his life, now that he is alive and on Earth. (He knows he needs to, but how is he supposed to rebuild a life he's never had?)

He has no credentials, no money for school – only a small, shit apartment back in Colorado that Ribbons will pay the first six months of, and a slowly-growing stash of illegal guns, and a quickly-growing desperation to do _something, _though he doesn't know what.

He knows he cannot stay in Ireland forever. He probably shouldn't be here at all, truth be told, but Ribbons hasn't ever said he _couldn't_ travel – and it's been far too long since he's been to visit his family.

He will return to that shit apartment a few days before his supply of pills runs out, and not before.

His family's grave is clean and well-kept, and Lockon wonders whether it's Lyle doing the upkeep or some member of their extended family. But he lays the flowers down gently upon the grass, and hesitates before moving stiffly to sit down beside them.

He's still not at full health – his face pains him, more often than not, and the rest of his body was by no means spared in the explosion. But standing over the headstone feels – feels cold, and superior, and he is neither of these things, especially when standing before the parents and sister who would be so disappointed in what he's done.

He deserves to be underneath the ground with them – or, better yet, instead of them – but the best he can do is lean against the headstone and close his eyes, willing the tears to stop.

He tells them everything, in an undertone that even passersby won't be able to hear. How he should be dead – how he deserves nothing more, for leaving his friends to die alone in space. How he became a mass murderer and still was unable to change the world – how he gave up everything, his humanity and his hope and whatever shreds of happiness he once clung to, trying to fool himself and change this world so the meaningless deaths would stop –

He cries more at this grave than he has in years. For the first time since he was a teenager, he feels like is truly Neil Dylandy—here, before his family, begging for forgiveness that he will never hear—

But then, he's not Neil, anymore, is he? Hell, he's not even _Lockon Stratos_ – he is Mark Finnegan, and the name leaves a foul taste on his tongue because he should not be in hiding – he should be –

He should be anywhere but here, anywhere but an ocean of self-serving grief, but he cannot pull himself out because who is left to hold him above the water?

He cannot remember the sound of his mother's voice – he cannot remember the way Amy's eyes crinkled when she laughed. He cannot remember the warmth of his father's hugs –

He is alone and they are gone and this world has fallen to pieces – and _what is he supposed to do?_

Time passes, and he still does not get up; the sun is starting to set beyond the trees, and Lockon knows he needs to pack up and find a motel to crash for the night, before maybe starting to look for Lyle in the morning. He – he had a _plan_ for this trip, but none of it matters, anymore, because he is here and his family is bones and dust beneath his feet and what does _anything _matter, when every one of his friends is just the same—?

A building's outside lights flicker on, across the street, and Lockon blinks up on instinct, ready for a fight even in this sleepy neighborhood. But it's only – it's only the old Catholic church, the one they frequented when they were children, when their parents dragged them to Mass every Sunday.

Lockon's never truly considered himself religious, even before the bombing. After it, though Aunt Kathryn and Teresa went regularly, neither he nor Lyle saw the point in attending a service for a God who would so callously tear their family away.

The floodlights have illuminated the old stone façade, and despite himself, Lockon finds himself standing, walking back toward the entrance to the cemetery. It's silly – more than likely, the priest won't even be there this late on a Friday. It's even more likely that the priest he once knew has been rotated out, sent to some other parish.

But he can't help himself – he ducks across the street in the dimming light, looks up at the large wooden doors they passed through every weekend in their Sunday best, and slowly pushes his way through.

The small foyer is well-lit, with the office off to one side – a light is on, there, though the door is locked when he tries it. The church proper – as he glances in – is somber and draped in purple. Lent, he thinks vaguely, as he recognizes the crucifix hidden from view. The end of February – it'd be Lent, right about now.

There are a couple of people in the upper pews (and an old woman with her head bowed in the dim chapel, when he cracks the door to look), but no sign of a priest – and Lockon is ready to give up on whatever venture his mind has half-formed when the door to the office opens quietly.

Lockon turns quickly, feels his heart stutter in surprise (it's a church no one will hurt you these are probably the most peaceful people you'll ever meet _why can't you relax_) as his gaze falls upon a middle-aged man dressed in black, his hair greying – a couple of inches taller than Lockon himself.

He's a decade older, but Lockon recognizes him as Father Mike – the same man who was pastor when he still attended church. "Hello," the priest says pleasantly, blinking at Lockon's tense body in his church entryway as he tries to relax. "Can I help you?"

"Um," Lockon says, blinking a few times – now that he's here, he's not sure, exactly, what he's doing. He must be a sight—covered in dirt, eyes puffy from crying, body hunched in from unhealed injuries. "I was just… I used to come here, with my family, when I was a kid. Was just across the street, so I…"

He trails off, a bit awkwardly – but Father Mike only smiles a bit, nodding as he shuts the door. "I didn't mean to startle you," he says. "Anyone is welcome to come here to pray, or think – or talk, if need be."

Lockon blinks – swallows once, twice. He doesn't know exactly what he could say to this holy man, but suddenly, the idea of talking to someone who could not possibly remember him – a man whom he will never meet again – seems incredibly inviting.

"Are you busy?" he blurts out, before he can lose his nerve. And from his vague memories of Father Mike, he should know that the man is kind to a fault, will put aside everything for a man in need – but he's still surprised when his face softens as he shakes his head, gesturing for Lockon to follow him back through the office door.

"I was just going to head out for the night," he explains in an undertone, glancing over his shoulder to Lockon with a little smile. "My empty apartment won't miss me if I'm an hour late."

Lockon can't find anything to say to that, but Father Mike doesn't seem to mind; he opens a door toward the end of the hall, leading to a small, cramped office, holding a desk, a small table with several chairs, and bookshelves overflowing with books, pamphlets, Bibles. It's eclectic and disorganized, to be sure, but Lockon finds some small comfort in the hominess of the office as Father Mike shuts the door, taking a seat at the table and gesturing for Lockon to do the same.

"You look young enough to have been a child while I was here," he says, and Lockon nods a bit. "What's your name, son?"

Lockon hesitates – he shouldn't give his real name, or his codename – and really, he shouldn't even give his new, false name – but he is in his hometown, talking with an authority figure of his childhood, and so he's able to say with only a little guilt – "Neil Dylandy."

Father Mike takes a moment to remember, but when he does, his face falls a bit in understanding. "Your family was very active in the church," he says, "and loved by many. I remember their funeral was quite well-attended, even when there were so many to go to."

"Yeah," Lockon says, because even if he scarcely remembers that awful day, he remembers the outpouring of strangers—the offers of help, of sympathy. He thinks Father Mike—the one who presided over their empty caskets—might have been one of them.

At the time, he'd hated every second of it. He's not so sure it's any different now. "I was – well, I've never really been very religious."

"A reasonable response to what happened," Father Mike says, and Lockon blinks.

"Are you allowed to say that?"

"Everyone handles grief in different ways, Neil," he says gently, leaning forward a bit. "I still speak with your aunt sometimes – she says that you and your brother both have drifted away from the Church in the past decade. Of course, I wish you would come back to the faith, but who am I to force a grown man to believe what I do?"

Lockon isn't quite sure what to make of this, but – "You – Aunt Kathryn is still here?" he asks, nearly stumbling over his words. Of course, he's tried to keep tabs on his extended family, but in the past year, it's been increasingly difficult. And he knows there's no reason for his aunt and cousin to have been killed – but too many people he knows have died for nothing – died senselessly – and knowing that they yet live brings surprising comfort.

Father Mike nods, smiling a bit. "She worries for both you and your brother – she said you haven't been in contact in years. I think she would be glad to hear from you, were you so inclined."

Lockon swallows, looking away for a moment. "I'm not sure that they'll want to see me," he says quietly – because this, here, is the heart of the problem with this trip to Ireland. "Lyle and I – never got along, and since I've been gone for so long…"

"Kathryn has mentioned several times – _recently_ – that she wishes she knows what you're doing," Father Mike says. "She's very clearly worried for your safety – I gather that you…did not handle your grief well, in the aftermath."

Lockon snorts, looking away. "She was convinced I'd kill myself," he says quietly, though as a teenager, his thoughts never strayed in that direction.

"Will you?" Father Mike asks, just as quietly, and Lockon snorts, doesn't answer.

He considers Lockon for a moment, the harsh lighting of the office illuminating the creases in his brow, the bags beneath his eyes. "Why don't you think your aunt and cousin will want to see you?" he asks eventually. "They're good people, Neil, and I'm sure they would be relieved to see you alive and – and well."

Lockon laughs humorlessly, sees Father Mike's gaze flicker to the scars on his face. Though he schools his features easily, Lockon can tell the priest is curious, though he means to say nothing about it. "_I'm_ not a good person," he says simply, crossing his arms. "My parents would be disappointed in me, if they could see what I've done – I can't imagine extended family would feel any different."

"I think you underestimate the forgiving power of love," Father Mike says with conviction, but Lockon only huffs and looks away.

"What have you done that you think can't be forgiven?" he stresses, realizing this is the crux of the problem – he leans forward a bit more, folding his hands on the table. "Even if you don't believe in God's forgiveness, do you really mistrust your family so much?"

"I trust that my family is made up of good people," he says, still looking at the wall, "and that what I've done is unforgivable, even for them."

"You can't know that for sure until you ask for their forgiveness," Father Mike insists, but Lockon – he knows that his old priest thinks he's done drugs, or – or killed a few people, at worst. And he thinks that Father Mike is right – if that's all he had done, Aunt Kathryn would be disappointed (furious), but he would be forgiven.

But he has no way of knowing how many people he has killed. Celestial Being's death tally, according to the media, topped several thousand, and divided amongst four Gundams, even taking the Trinities into account –

He is the definition of a mass murderer, and he has gotten away with it. There will be no redemption for him.

"I know I'm condemned to Hell," Lockon says quietly. "If there's a Heaven, my parents and Amy are there – but if there's a Hell, that's where I'm going to end up."

"Neil," Father Mike says, and he sounds concerned now as he searches his face. Lockon's gaze flickers around the office – to the crucifixes on the wall, the overstuffed bookshelves, the trinkets cluttering the desk. "What have you done?"

"You'll have to turn me in if I tell you," Lockon says quietly. "And they'll kill me if you do."

"If you've committed a crime, you'll stand a trial," Father Mike says immediately, the concern growing on your face. "I don't know of any government in the western world that doesn't –"

"They've already killed all my friends," Lockon cuts him off, his voice low in remembrance. Feldt, barely a teenager, vaporized along with her best friends on the bridge – Setsuna, taking on that massive mobile armor alone – Allelujah, captured and surely dead by now (though he'll do anything not to believe it) –

Father Mike can only stare; Lockon can see the gears turning in his mind as he tries to decide what to do. "If you're right, and they will kill you without trial, I cannot in good conscience turn you over to the authorities," he says after several moments. "But Neil, if what you've done is so terrible, you can't avoid the consequences of your actions."

"_I'd love to!_" Lockon snaps, his temper rising from nowhere, and he sees Father Mike blink in shock; he tries to rein it in, but the memories of his friends, of the world celebrating the destruction of the only family he has left…his eye burns, but he barely notices it as he grits out, "Every one of my friends is dead, and I'm stranded on Earth with _nothing_! I wish I could have joined them!"

"Neil," Father Mike says, his voice rising a bit, and Lockon realizes he's half-risen out of his chair; he feels his face color a bit more, and allows himself to fall heavily back into his seat. "If you want my advice, I need to know what's going on."

"It's not like I have a choice," Lockon says sharply, suddenly sure of his decision. "I came to say goodbye to my parents and sister. It'll be better for Lyle and the others to think I'm gone."

"Kathryn has been worried sick about you," Father Mike says, leaning forward. "You've barely talked to her since you were sixteen – and no matter what you think, she cares about you. You're her _nephew_ – "

"And I'm a mass murderer," he says, self-hatred all over his voice as he runs his hands down his face, grounding himself in the pain. He hears Father Mike inhale sharply but can't bring himself to look up at him – because he's sure, now, that he will not hesitate to call the military and turn him in –

"What have you done, Neil?" he asks, a waver well-concealed in his voice, and he pulls in a shaky breath, willing his heart to slow.

"I wanted to avenge my family," he says, very quietly. "Celestial Being gave me the opportunity to do that."

He feels the handgun in his jacket, resting comfortably against his side; he knows that he could prevent this man from calling the authorities to take him in and join Allelujah. He knows he could but he also knows he will not, because – he has killed enough people, in his life. He does not regret those deaths, because it allowed him to destroy the man who destroyed _him,_ but he has long decided that unless the government turns in awful ways yet again – unless a miracle happens, and his friends are yet alive – he is done with killing.

If Father Mike decides his moral compass will not allow him to walk free, he will not resist – and the only way he may consider turning the gun is toward his own head.

The other man has been silent for several seconds, now, and Lockon considers simply getting up and walking away – sure he understands why his family would hate him, now. He's looking everywhere but the priest's face, reading the titles of books, taking in the patterns on some of the crucifixes. He does not look at Father Mike's face and so he is surprised when the man only says quietly, "Help me understand."

Lockon blinks, focusing on him again, but his face is a blank slate, open with a desire to listen. "What's there to understand?" he asks roughly, crossing his arms across his chest and wishing immediately that he hadn't. "I piloted a Gundam. I've probably killed thousands of people – you have every right to turn me in."

"The fact that you're telling me this suggests otherwise," Father Mike says. "Why would you reveal yourself like that when you have no reason to? Do you regret your actions?"

Lockon sees immediately where this is going – Father Mike thinks he's asking for reconciliation, asking for forgiveness for ruining thousands of lives. But he does not regret joining Celestial Being, and he tells the priest so – Father Mike's brows furrow deeper, at that, but he says nothing about it. Instead, he only stares at Lockon, as if waiting for him to continue. He sighs explosively, slouching a bit in his chair in a way that makes him feel like he's back in high school, in the principal's office _again._

"I joined Celestial Being to get revenge for Mum and Dad and Amy," he says, very quietly. It's odd, speaking of such things to a near stranger – but he has not been able to acknowledge what he's done since he woke up in the hospital. If Father Mike is planning to call the authorities, at least he hasn't, yet. "And I did."

Father Mike's brows shoot up from their frown, at that, searching Lockon's face though he still does not meet his eyes. "I thought it was a suicide bombing," he says, very carefully. "Who was left for you to get revenge against?"

Lockon blinks a few times, feels hatred surge in his gut for that man – he never saw his face, never had any contact with him beyond those scarce seconds over an open comm link, but he can't – "The leader of the KPSA," he says shortly, his forearms pressing more tightly to his chest. "The one who sent the kid to the mall in the first place. I – got him, he's dead."

Father Mike's silence stretches longer, this time. When Lockon chances a look up to his face, it is twisted in a way he cannot recognize. "You know I cannot condone killing," he says carefully, "and I certainly cannot condone what you and your comrades have done. But I saw what happened to this community after the bombing – and I'm glad that man won't be able to harm anyone else."

Lockon blinks, wondering whether he's even allowed to say such things, but Father Mike continues, his eyes piercing. "But Celestial Being all but tore this world apart, too," he says, and Lockon feels his jaw clenching as he sees where this is going. "I'm sure you see the hypocrisy here, Neil – what drove you to such extremes?"

"The world needed to change," he says, because it's true – and it's what his friends fought and died for, right until the end. "I didn't see any other way forward that had any hope of succeeding."

Father Mike says nothing, staring intently at him. "All the shit that you see on TV," he continues, "multiply that by about a thousand, and maybe you'll start to get the state that the world is really in. Me—" here, he almost laughs—"I was considered the _friendly_ member of our crew. The _well adjusted_ one, if that gives you any idea how _fucked up_ my friends' lives were. Setsuna, he was a child soldier in the Middle East, and Allelujah was experimented on by the HRL when he was a kid—"

"Allelujah?" Father Mike asks, a little surprised, and Lockon shakes his head.

"He said—a friend he made there named him that, because they were so thankful to God for being _alive_, even in that hell hole, and now—" he chokes—"now the government's got him, and he'd be better off dead because who _knows_ what shit they're doing to him—"

"The boy on the news," he says suddenly, a dismayed exhale. "His name is Allelujah?"

"Yeah," Lockon says roughly, "and every other friend I've had since I was sixteen was killed the same day he was captured."

Father Mike is silent for several seconds, absorbing this. "No matter what you have done, the deaths of young people is never the answer," he says eventually. If Lockon didn't know any better, he'd say he sees true sorrow on his face. "I'm sorry that you had to live through that."

Lockon grunts, and slouches further into his chair, and averts his eyes again. "What would you have me do?" Father Mike asks after another moment. "I can put you in contact with your aunt—no matter what you say, she would be glad to see you, and I think a familiar face would do you some good."

"You're wrong," he mutters, but does not elaborate. Father Mike sighs.

"I have no intention of turning you over to the authorities," he says. "I want to help you, Neil, but there's only so much I can do if you don't _want _to be helped."

"There's nothing anyone can do," he says gruffly, suddenly wondering why he bothered talking to this old priest at all. It's a liability, a blatant security breach that Tieria would have (had) his head for. What the hell does he think he's doing? "They're all dead, now. I wish I were, too, so I—"

"That's no way to talk," Father Mike says, suddenly sharp, and Lockon looks up despite himself. "I can think of three people right now who would pay dearly to see you again. Did you know your cousin Teresa had a baby? He's a year and a half, now. Last Kathryn told me, your brother was in graduate school up in Dublin. And when he visited for Christmas, he looked well—healthy and _happy_, even—"

"Lyle hates me," he butts in, but Father Mike continues—

"And when was the last time you saw him? You were sixteen. A lot's changed in the last nine years, and I think you're writing them off too quickly." He pauses, here, and takes a long look at Lockon's face. "Maybe you're doing it on purpose, because _you _don't want to see _them_ again."

He chews on his mouth for a moment, scowling, trying to come up with an acceptable response. Father Mike is right, but he's not willing to admit it. "So what?" he says eventually, and sits up, slouching forward onto the table instead. "I'm a terrorist. I've killed more people than I can count. Look me in the eye and tell me _anyone _would claim me as family."

"Kathryn would," Father Mike says in an instant, meeting his gaze steadily, and Lockon grits his teeth, "if you'd give her the chance."

They stare at each other for several seconds, and Lockon only grows more tense. He needs to get _out. _There's the door, closed but unlocked, and he can almost definitely run faster than a middle aged priest. There's a large window, too, looking out over the church grounds, and while it's not ideal, he could try—

"Neil," Father Mike says, and Lockon swivels his gaze back toward him. "I'm not holding you here. If you want to leave, please feel free to do so."

"I didn't think you were," he snaps back. Father Mike only continues to stare. Lockon thought being in such close proximity to a murderer would make him uncomfortable, but he appears as relaxed as he was when they first met in the lobby.

"I know fear when I see it," Father Mike says carefully.

"I'm not scared of _you—" _

"Of course you're not. But you're scared of _something, _and your heart is telling you to run away. That's a perfectly normal response."

Fight or flight, just like he's always felt since he was fourteen and terrified and _alone. _He ran away from his family; he ran away from Ireland; he ran away from his team to take on al-Saachez.

He wouldn't regret it, except the thought that Dynames' presence in that final battle very well could have saved their lives.

"What the _fuck _am I supposed to do?" he asks, his voice cracking, and he hates himself for it. He's Lockon Stratos—he's a Gundam Meister—he's the best sniper this side of the moon—

And he couldn't save his family or his friends, and now they're all dead, and—

"You're supposed to start fresh," Father Mike says, and some of the tension around his eyes has dissipated. "Build yourself a new life—a peaceful one—back here, at home, with your family."

It's the exact thing he was trying to convince himself of earlier—but if it seemed difficult before, he thinks it's _impossible _now. "I can't just throw it all away," he says, and rubs both hands down his face. "The fighting, and—and my friends. I can't pretend that none of it happened."

"You don't have to," he says, "but you need to continue living. You survived the bombing, and the battle, for a reason, Neil. And I didn't know your friends, but I knew your parents—and they wouldn't have wanted you to waste this chance."

This—and _only _this—gives him pause. He has already disappointed his family in so many ways. Can he bear to do so yet again? "They're dead," he says quietly, "and I avenged them. It doesn't matter."

"But you still haven't found your peace," Father Mike points out, just as quiet. Lockon doesn't answer.

"Would you do me a favor?" Father Mike asks suddenly, after several moments of silence. Lockon looks up, a little skeptical. "I'm presiding over the vigil Mass tomorrow night. I would like you to attend."

"Why?" he asks, too surprised to be rude. Father Mike smiles.

"I don't know if you recall, but Lent focuses on repentance and perseverance," he says. "With the readings we have for this weekend… I think it might do your heart some good to hear it."

"I don't believe in God," he says, and some of the edge is seeping back into his voice. "If he does exist, I'd rather shoot him in the head than worship him. What would church do for me?"

"Prayer can be whatever you want it to be," Father Mike says without missing a beat. "I've spent hours yelling at God. Eleven years ago I prayed every night, after the funerals were over, demanding to know why He would do such a thing to us."

"Did he ever answer?" Lockon asks nastily.

"You know God doesn't always speak to us directly," he says, "and I'm not going to give you the _everything happens for a reason _spiel. But eventually, I found my peace with the situation, through His grace."

"Yeah, well, I didn't," Lockon says, and his hands twitch, desperate to push himself up and get out of here.

"I know," Father Mike says. "Religion didn't help. Running away didn't help. Killing for peace didn't help. Even avenging all those people didn't ease your heart. I thought that being in a place of quiet contemplation, where you're free to talk to God however you'd like, might be an alternative to try."

"I don't want to talk to him," Lockon says, scowling. The idea's ridiculous to him. "He's the one that created this awful world and took _everything _away from me."

"So curse at Him," he says. "Yell at Him, if you think it will help. He understands."

Lockon sighs explosively, pushing himself to his feet and swaying for a moment before he finds his balance. "I'm going now," he announces unnecessarily, and eyes Father Mike to see whether he will stop him.

Father Mike stands as well, reaching for him. To restrain him, to embrace him, to punch him—Lockon doesn't know. He steps away. "Please consider my offer," he says instead, retracting his hand without a trace of hurt on his face. "You don't even have to stay for the Eucharist, if you don't want to."

"I'll think about it," Lockon says through gritted teeth, sure he won't give it a second thought, and lets himself out.

.

.

.

.

The next afternoon, he finds himself back at the cemetery. Then, he finds himself stepping into the church.

He tells himself that it's because he doesn't have anything better to do. He tells himself that it's to prove Father Mike wrong. He tells himself anything but the small, nagging thought that maybe this will actually do something for his pain.

He walks in late, after the processional; Father Mike is at the altar, giving his opening prayer. Lockon avoids his gaze, but he could swear he _feels _the old priest's smile as he catches sight of him, even from where he slouches in the very back row.

He mostly sulks, not participating in the songs and prayers he barely remembers. The readings—something about the Israelites being slaves in the desert before they're eventually set free—mostly washes over him. The Gospel, he pays even less attention to—and he's just decided to pull himself up and walk back out when Father Mike's homily starts.

He wrote it this morning. Lockon's sure of this, because it is so pointedly directed at him that he wants to go throttle the old priest for it. He talks about forgiveness, and perseverance in the face of tragedy and fear and adversity.

"Everyone here remembers where they were when they heard the mall was bombed," he says, and the old lady next to Lockon bows her head, kissing her rosary. "Everyone here has done things they regret, things that weren't the right choice. But the important thing is that we continue to move forward, just as Moses did in our first reading. He continued to press Pharaoh, and gave his trust to God. And through God's plan, he and the Israelites were delivered from their trials and into a better life."

Lockon grimaces, and slouches further into the pew, and takes to staring around the church. They've replaced the carpet and the pews, in the last several years, but it looks largely the same. The scent of incense tickles his nose, and memories of mocking Lyle for passing out when they used too much of it sting at his heart.

(Lyle hates his guts, just like he always has. What the hell is he doing in Ireland?)

Father Mike talks some more about God's forgiveness and mercy, and how everyone should try to emulate it in their own lives. A baby on the other side of the church starts squalling. Memories emerge of Amy lighting up every time they sat behind a baby in church, because it meant she could entertain herself when Mass got too boring.

(Amy's dead, just like their parents. Just like Lockon _should be.) _

Everyone stands up; the petitions start. Father Mike doesn't even get through the first one before Lockon is out of the pew, hurrying out the back of the church and wiping at his eyes.

"_For all the souls who perished in the recent conflict; no matter their motives, each precious life lost is a tragedy we cannot condone. We pray to the Lord—" _

_"Lord hear our prayer," _says the congregation, solemn and heartfelt, and the sound haunts Lockon as he slams the lobby door behind him.

The baby's been relocated back here, apparently. A woman with long dark hair is bouncing him on her hip, cooing to him as he cries, but Lockon pays them no mind. He needs to get _out. _

"Lyle?" she calls out suddenly, her voice high in surprise. Lockon freezes, his back to her. "Lyle, what're you doing here?"

It's his cousin Teresa—it's his cousin who Father Mike said had a baby—and he hesitates only a split second longer before continuing to move, faster than before. He can't let her know it's not Lyle who's shown up at their old church—she can't—

"Lyle, hey!" she says, and jogs closer, reaching with her free hand to catch his jacket. "I thought you were—"

He wrenches his arm free, does not turn to look at her, and continues walking. "Lyle Dylandy!" she says, sharper this time, and grabs his arm properly this time, pulling him with surprising strength to spin around toward him.

He sees her face fall in shock and confusion. She stares at the scars, clutches her baby a little tighter, and chokes on whatever words she was planning to say next.

"Lyle—?"

"Try again," he says, a sardonic little smile growing on his face. She never could tell them apart, even after living together for two years. But, after all, they're not identical anymore.

(Was this Father Mike's plan, get him to go to the Mass his family attended? Did he really think—)

But Teresa's face is contorting, falling in grief and distress, and before he can blink, tears are falling down her cheeks. "Neil, _where have you been?" _she demands. "We thought you were _dead, _we thought—"

The "I should be" dies on his tongue as Teresa's grip only grows tighter on his forearm. Then, she yanks him toward her, embracing him in a tight, tight hug, her son squashed between them.

Neil hesitates, but then he hugs her back.

"I thought we lost you, too," she says into his chest, and he can feel her shaking even through the thick clothes he's wearing. "Even Lyle's given up hope, we haven't even _heard from you _since you were nineteen, none of us knew where you were—"

His grip convulses, but he says nothing in response. What's he _supposed _to say? That he left them all behind for a suicide mission, that he prioritized his dead family over those who were still living?

(The guilt is stronger than it's ever been, but he still can't find it in his heart to regret it. Teresa just continues to sob.)

"Were you just going to leave without saying goodbye?" she demands, and Neil looks away. "If Peter hadn't started crying, I—we never would have—"

"It'd be better that way," he says quietly, eventually, as the silence stretches longer. "I—"

"Bullshit," she snarls, gripping him even tighter. "Neil, you're like my little brother—why would you…"

She trails off, sobs again, and shakes her head. "We thought you were dead," she says again, more quietly.

The door to the church opens; Neil stiffens and looks over, instantly ready for a fight. But a middle-aged woman walks through, looking over to the couches where Teresa was sitting, before her gaze finds the three of them.

"Teresa?" she asks, sounding a little alarmed, and hurries forward. Neil realizes—her hair is gray, now, and there are many more lines on her face, but this is his Aunt Kathryn.

Excellent. Wonderful. He's sure Father Mike is very pleased with himself right about now.

"_Neil?" _she asks, stopping short and staring up at him with wide eyes once she realizes who her daughter's clinging to. "_Where have you been?" _

"She's already asked me that," he says, feeling like he's getting scolded. "Twice."

"You've been gone for six years!" she says, her voice rising. "No warning, no explanation! What were we _supposed _to think?"

Yeah, he's _definitely _fifteen again, in trouble for skipping school. "I needed to get out," he says. He doesn't want to have this conversation with his family, but he _definitely _doesn't want to do it in the lobby of a church.

"You could have warned us," she says, stepping forward abruptly and grasping him by the shoulder. "Even if you weren't thinking about me and Teresa, you left your brother _alone—_"

"Lyle hates me," he says, reflexively, trying to shy away though both of them have a firm grip on him, now. Even the baby—Peter—has calmed down, and is now staring up at Neil's face curiously.

"Wy!" he says, garbled by baby talk and the hand he has shoved firmly in his mouth.

"Lyle was a stupid teenager," Aunt Kathryn says, "and he misses you just as much as the rest of us."

Neil stares at her, unable to process this. A spit-covered hand comes into his tenuous line of sight, reaching for him; he starts and looks down to Peter. "Wy!" he says again, obviously delighted, and stretches his arms up toward him.

"I'm not Lyle," he says, but Peter can't even be two yet—reasoning with him, he knows, will be useless.

"Wy!" he insists, straining up from Teresa's arms. Kathryn laughs, plucks him up, and holds him out to Neil.

"If he starts screaming again, _you _get to deal with him," she warns. Neil hesitates before grabbing him under the arms and adjusting him so they're all sort of comfortable. Teresa's still attached to his chest, and Kathryn seems to be just moments behind, but eventually he settles the baby on his hip. He tries not to let on how much it's aggravating his injuries, but Teresa notices his stiffness.

"What happened to you?" she asks, pulling away and staring again in horror at his face.

"Not here," he says, pleading, and looks to his aunt for help. Peter's heavy, and in his weakened state he's not sure how much longer he can hold him up. "Somewhere—safe, private?"

"We can go home," she says instantly, already turning toward the door and pulling out her phone. "You're riding with us, Neil—"

"My car's across the street, anyway," he mutters, trying to gently detach Peter's grubby hands from his hair. Aunt Kathryn's face grows a little pained, at that, but she doesn't say anything as Teresa drags him outside by the arm.

"Lyle," Aunt Kathryn says suddenly, and Neil looks up—but she's on the phone. "You need to get down here right away."

"What's wrong?" Lyle asks, his voice tense and worried. Neil looks over to see the tiny image of his brother's face on her screen. He looks exactly the same—they even still have the same haircut—and his brows are furrowed in concern. "Is Peter okay?"

"We're fine," she says, shaking her head. "Your brother just showed up."

"_Neil?" _His voice is suddenly higher, and Neil can see him trying to look for him in the background of Aunt Kathryn's video. "He's still alive?"

"Yeah," she says, and hesitates before passing her phone off to him. Neil readjusts Peter, shaking with the strain of carrying him on one arm, and accepts the phone. Then, he stares down at the brother he hasn't seen in nine years.

Lyle goes white. "You motherfucker," he says, his voice low, and runs a hand down his face. "Where the _fuck _have you been?"

"You care, now?" Neil asks before he can help himself. Teresa makes a pained noise, beside him, and takes Peter from his arm to strap him into his car seat.

"Of course I care!" Lyle says, and his face contorts for a moment like he's going to cry. "You're a bastard, but you're my brother." He rubs at his eyes again, shaking his head. "You're my _brother_."

Neil grimaces, unsure of what to say. "What'd you do to your face?" Lyle asks after another moment, frowning at him as Neil buckles into his aunt's car beside Peter.

"I'll explain once you're down here," Neil says, and Lyle swears softly.

"Nothing good, then," he says, and Neil smiles, a little crooked. "I'll be there in two hours—don't get yourself killed before I get there, all right?"

"Not planning on it," he says, and Lyle swears again before hanging up.

.

.

His aunt's house is just the same as it was when he left.

The puppy they had just adopted when he left is an old girl, now, who looks at Neil without familiarity in her eyes as she sniffs at his hand. They've updated some of the kitchen appliances, and there's a new car sitting in the driveway, but everything else is _exactly _the same—even his old bedroom. Neil isn't quite sure how to process this as he stands in the living room, taking it all in.

"We don't move quickly around here," Aunt Kathryn says, a smile on her face.

They sit together, mostly in silence. Peter continues to call him "Wy," crawling all over his lap and showing him his toys. The dog warms up to him quickly, curling up on his feet and falling asleep, snoring softly.

Teresa and Aunt Kathryn don't seem willing to leave him alone. He'd be offended by it if they didn't keep pulling him into tight, desperate hugs and sobbing into his shoulder at random intervals.

Lyle arrives barely an hour and a half later. Neil doesn't even have time to stand from the couch before his brother is before him, pulling him vertical and into a crushing hug. "You're a stupid bastard," he mutters into his neck, and Neil is a little alarmed to feel tears hitting his shoulder. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"That I needed to avenge our family," he says. Lyle swears again.

"_What did you do?" _he demands, pushing him to arm's length and looking at him with puffy eyes. "Damnit, Neil, you were supposed to be the pretty one, but now I've gotta do that too, huh?"

He laughs, suddenly, maybe a little high pitched, maybe a little unhinged. Maybe a little like he laughed when Setsuna first gave him the name of the man he had to kill.

Lyle was always the smart one; Neil's known that for a long time. He's just never heard his brother admit it so blatantly before. "I did something stupid," he admits, smiling a bit toothily.

Lyle seems less impressed. "You're not okay," he accuses, tightening his grip on his arms as he narrows his eyes. "Neil, _what did you do?" _

"Killed the bastard that murdered our family," he says, his grin growing wider, and Lyle stiffens.

"The kid's dead," he says, his voice low as he stares at Neil. "He died in the mall—"

"The guy who sent him there was still alive," Neil says, "until about two months ago."

Lyle stares at him, clearly doing some mental math, before he swears again, loudly. "Please tell me," he says, his voice wavering, "that you were not stupid enough to be a part of Fallen Angels."

"I'm not going to lie to you," he says, his manic grin fading. He wasn't expecting them to guess it so quickly...but then, with Lyle, he shouldn't be surprised.

"_Fuck," _Lyle says again, and Aunt Kathryn intervenes from where she and Teresa have been standing to the side.

"Neil would never join the military," she says sternly, not even like she's trying to convince herself. It's just a fact of life to her, and that she knows him so well is like he's been blown up all over again. They think so highly of him, and yet—

"You're right," he says, quieter. "I wasn't fighting for the military."

They all stare at him for several seconds, processing. "Neil—" Teresa says, and her voice is a touch higher.

"Celestial Being promised they'd change the world," he continues, and suddenly finds that he can't meet any of their eyes. This is it, then—he's about to find out whether his family can forgive him of the worst crimes on the planet. "They had a sniping unit ready and waiting for me. I didn't even have to think about it."

"Neil," Aunt Kathryn says unsteadily, too loud.

"They were all killed," Lyle says, his grip convulsing on his arms. "It was all over the news, there was no way anyone could have survived. Stop bullshitting us—"

"No bullshit," he says, and looks up into his brother's horrified eyes. "All of them—every one of my friends—they're dead. And I woke up in a Union hospital a month ago instead of joining them."

The fist comes out of nowhere; Neil feels it collide with his face even before he registers Lyle dropping his grip from his arm. Teresa screams; the dog's barking; Peter starts crying; Aunt Kathryn steps forward, trying to pull Lyle away from him.

His face is on fire; Lyle is pasty and furious, tears falling anew down his cheeks as he allows himself to be dragged away. "You stupid son of a bitch," Lyle says, his voice ruined, and then Neil is laughing.

"I knew you'd say that," he says, and then Teresa's pulling him by the arm to sit at the kitchen table. She reaches for his nose with a napkin, and it comes away red—huh. Lyle's learned how to throw a punch in the last few years. Good for him.

"Neil," she says, and he's surprised that her voice is so steady, that she's so close to him after he just confessed to mass murder. "You're—not well. Ever since the bombing—and if you survived the battle, then—"

"I'm fine," he says, but she shakes her head.

"I know—I know you didn't take your family's deaths well. And now you survived _Fallen Angels, _and lost even more, and you still wanted to run away from me at church? What were you _thinking? _You can't expect to go through this alone—here, tilt your head forward, I don't think it's broken—"

"I'm a mass murderer," he says, thick and garbled through the blood and the stack of napkins, now, pressed against his nose. "You'd be better off thinking I was dead."

"You're like my little brother," she says firmly, and puts more pressure on his nose. "You're an idiot, and impulsive and stupid and all sorts of other things, but you're _family._ Why on Earth would I want you dead?"

Neil blinks, considering this. Aunt Kathryn comes up beside her daughter, dragging Lyle by the arm, and stares down at him critically.

"You're staying here until further notice," she says sternly. "I don't know if you were hoping you'd be kicked out, but clearly you're not well enough to live on your own."

"I'm _fine,_" he says again, frowning and trying to look up at her. Teresa pushes his head down stubbornly.

"You're Neil," Lyle says, and Neil can _hear _his eye-roll. "You're never fine."

* * *

_outtakes_

_Father Mike: I want you to come to Mass_

_Neil: Why?_

_The author, an atheist ex-Catholic: *sweating*_

_—-_

_Teresa: Neil, you're not well!_

_Neil: Nah, I was the ad hoc therapist on our ship because everyone thought I was so well-adjusted_

_Teresa, Kathryn, Lyle, Peter, the dog: **oh GOD**_


End file.
